


Dark Mirror

by NicoleMAbrahamson_AResidentGhost



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe-Mutants, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Crossover, Erik being Erik, F/M, Mutant Powers, Mutants, Wings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-02 23:34:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17273264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NicoleMAbrahamson_AResidentGhost/pseuds/NicoleMAbrahamson_AResidentGhost
Summary: The demon looking Erik, shunned by the world around him, is finally offered refuge. What will happen, and will he finally be accepted? Leroux based.





	1. Rescue

There was nothing he could do to save himself. He huddled up and raised his arms to protect himself.

"Please don't hurt me," he whimpers. His voice is beautiful, his body, though, is horribly skeletal. He closes his golden eyes and prepares for the worst as the mob approaches ever closer.

Before the crowd reaches him however, they freeze in mid-movement. However, the young man seems unaffected. His sobs are nerve-wracking.

A creature, blue-furred and tailed, with all the appearance of a demon come to life, walks up to the huddling figure. The creature reaches out one of his hands and takes hold of his arm.

"It's okay. Take my hand. We'll get you away from here."

"Who are you?"

"Kurt Wagner, better known as Nightcrawler. Another one like you is here—his name is Arik. What is yours?"

" _Monsieur_ , I have no name. But you may call me Erik," the masked person replies as he opens his eyes and takes Kurt's hand.


	2. Where Am I?

I wake up, and my heart is full of dread. Where am I? Am I in Hell? Am I in jail or a cage once again for being a "freak"? Have I accidentally killed someone again with my touch when I was unconscious?

My eyes open… I am in a bed. A soft, comfortable bed that I surely do not belong in! I try to get out of bed and just as I am about to stand up, I am hit by a wave of pain and nausea. When the hell was the last time I had something to eat? Not for a long time, probably… I collapse back down onto the bed, being careful of my wings. Has whoever rescued me seen them? Do they think I am a demon come from Hell? But I wouldn't think so… I remember one of them, who looked like a demon himself! Surely, they would not judge me because of appearance then, would they? I sigh.

I nay not have a nose, but I can detect a very strong odor suddenly—brimstone. So I  _am_  in Hell! But maybe not… The odor itself is disappearing. So where am I?

The creature that looks like a demon walks up to my bed. What did he say his name was?  _Murt? Kirk? Kurt?_  Yes, that's it! Kurt Wagner! He speaks with a German accent.

"Hello, again."


	3. People's Ignorance

"Do you know where you are, Erik?" Kurt asks.

I shake my heard, but even that motion makes me tired, dizzy, and disorientated.

"I don't know what they did to you, but you don't look good."

I laugh forcefully. "Since when have I ever looked good?  _At least you have a nose!_ " I spit. I realize someone's taken my mask off. " _Where is it? Where is my mask?"_

"Do you really  _need_  that mask?" He asks.

My eyes narrow dangerously. "I can kill you with one touch, I hope you know. But I could heal what my touch could do to you just by one touch, also. Which would you prefer  _daemon? Know that you are walking a very fine line right now, and Erik could go either way…"_

I sigh, releasing my deadly anger before it builds to dangerous levels. "Why didn't you just let me die? It would have been so much easier on this bigoted world…"

"Because no one deserves to die like that—ever. Who knows what gifts you have to give to the world yet?"

"You're right, monsieur," I admit. It is rare for me to admit wrongdoing—be it in thought, word, or action.

"I have no last name. My name itself is but an accident. If I could heal myself, heal my disfigured face, I would. My face—rejected and hated the world over just because of my appearance. When I was little, I was brought to many of the finest surgeons in the world. Yet, every time I visited a new doctor, my case would be rejected, denied, and declared impossible to repair. Now you know why I wear this mask. Because of people's ignorance."


	4. Hunger

"When was the last time you ate? You are nothing but skin and bones!" The normal-looking person/nurse/doctor comments.

She is beautiful to my eyes. But I know I would never have a chance with a woman of her beauty. She has reddish brown hair, cut short and spiked, and dark blue, almost black eyes (the irises, that is).

"I do not remember… But I know Erik has always been as thin as a corpse…" I say. "May I ask what is your name?"

"Oh certainly, mister. Mary-Anne Doming. I'm from the South, originally, but moved up to New England when I was eight years old.

"You look hungry. I'll get you some soup."

"Why soup?"

"Because it is better to start with foods that are easier to digest, like if you were sick with the flu. Your stomach probably cannot handle anything heavier," she replies.

" _Mademoiselle_ , I assure you, I do not need soup—perhaps some bread and cheese… I only eat when I am hungry, and that isn't very often," I warn. I  _am_  hungry, but I know that soup will not fill me up.


	5. A Visit With Xavier

A man comes into the room. He is in a wheelchair of a design unlike any I have ever seen. I feel someone trying to invade my mind. I try to fight them.

He speaks. "Be calm, monsieur," he addresses me in my "native" language. I respond in my first language, one of many that I know.

"Monsieur, I am calm. I would appreciate it if you kept out of my head!  _And don't touch my hands, neck or lower arms without gloves if you wish to live…"_

"Ah… a self-defense mechanism," he muses. "Tel me: Is there a way of reversing this effect?"

"Yes. If I choose to 'drown out' the touch with a healing touch… It can heal anything—injuries, sickness, and even reverse my touch when I accidentally cause it."

"What do you mean, 'accidentally'?" He asks.

"I can control it most of the time," I respond. "The exception is during sleep, stress, or unconsciousness. That is why I wear so much to bed, monsieur. By the way, what is your name—if I'm not being too rude, of course."

"Xavier. Professor Charles Xavier. You can call me Professor or Charles, if you like. Would you like a tour of the facility, Erik?"

"How do you know my name? And where am I—a  _prison or insane asylum? Lord knows I should be placed there just for being born!"_  Before my rage can explode any further, I feel a calming influence on my mind.

"You are in my school for the gifted. There are others like you, feared for their differences from humanity. Trust me that you will not be jeered at because of what you look like in my school," the disabled man speaks. "My difference is not totally visible. I am a telepath of surprising strength. That's how I know your name already."

I am silent for a while. Then I open my mouth again. "I accept your offer of a tour of this place. However, I will need help getting up, as I am quite sore for some reason… Maybe I should wait until I feel better…"

"I understand," he assents. "One would no doubt be sore after not moving for over a week when one is so obviously used to moving around and a high level of activity."

'I must admit there are a few who, for some reason or another, are completely  _immune_  to my  _deadly_  touch. I can usually tell who they are; it is like a sixth sense. There is at least one here at this school. His name is Kurt Wagner."


	6. Memories Of Abuse

It is frightening to be around so many people, yet feel very accepted, no matter the appearance. No one gives a second thought to my appearance—especially my dragon (or demon) like wings! It is most certainly something I have never experienced.

Here, I can walk freely without a cloak to hide my wings. And though I feel free enough to do that, I don't believe I will ever feel secure enough—anywhere—to walk around without my mask.

I can blame it all on my parents, and their abuse of me whenever they felt like it, but worse and  _always_  whenever I took my mask off in their or anyone else's presence.

Ah, yes, my parents should probably be thrown in jail for life, no doubt. But they probably will get away with it, I suppose. Few people knew I was really alive, although they knew I was a freak—even before any mutations started to appear. Very few people knew what I looked like when I was young, as I was forced to wear a mask since birth.

Many, many times I was forgotten and left locked in the attic. Everything tat I was to use was in that attic. Instead of being just one room, it was more like another floor of the house, only the floor was mostly unfinished wood board, most worn smooth through time by the passage of my feet, except the bathroom and a few other rooms, and the walls' paint was peeling in places.

My room and the attic when the maid finished her twice weekly cleaning of the attic (except my room, in which I had to stay during the whole time) were the only places I could relieve myself from the pressure of the mask that I was swiftly outgrowing.

The attic also contained a bathroom, complete with shower, tub, sink, and toilet. Sometimes, if my parent's maid noticed I was running low on soap or shampoo, she would leave some more in the bathroom.

I never really knew if my parents had any other children, as I was rarely allowed outside of the attic. What they did not know, however, was about the secret passages within the walls, accessible easily from the attic. There are other entrances, but they were well concealed, and I preferred for them (the other people living in the house) to not know so I would not get in trouble for roaming the house and raiding the kitchen at night when I was hungry.

It was soon rumored about a ghost or a thief, I was the one they talked about, but I don't think they really ever caught on. One time, though, I almost got caught. And I did not go unpunished for that. My father and some men came up to the attic the next day. After knocking me down to the floor with his fist, he had the men hold me down so I could not escape or move to protect myself. He then proceeded to beat me senseless. After a while, I fell unconscious. I must admit I welcomed its sweet release from the pain.

When I woke up again, probably about two to three days later, I hurt so bad, was bruised so much that I resembled an eggplant (a very skinny eggplant), and I could not move. I resolved myself then and there that when my injuries felt better, I would run away from home, and away from the abuse.

And I did. I've never stayed in one place for more than a couple of years, two at the tops, and only once did I stay for three years, which was when I was in Turkey.


End file.
